Parting Ways
by TheAga13
Summary: Having survived the encounter with the Archdemon, the Warden needs to find a new place for herself - considering that staying in Denerim is more painful than she initially thought. One-shot. Failed Warden x Alistair. Rated T for undertones.


**So, after over 3 years from updating my last story (BTW I dropped the idea and probably will never finish it - sorry, folks!) I came up with a new one-shot, from Dragon Age: Origins this time. What led me to writing it was the irritation (that's an euphemism, of course) that I felt after hardened (I repeat, _hardened_) Alistair dumped me in the beautiful landscape of Brecilian Forest, in front of my whole active party, yay! If same has happened to anyone else - you're getting a hug from me. I wish somebody gave me one when I learned that during _my_ playthrough.**

**Okay, enough talking nonesense - now, proceed to the story! Read & review, of course. I'll be most grateful.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own DA:O or any of the mentioned characters - apart from Erin, of course. She's mine and that is enough for me.**

* * *

"I'm leaving."

Zevran began to choke abruptly, gobbing and spilling most of his ale. When he finally managed to breath normally, he peeked sadly into the nearly empty mug.

"My dear, beautiful friend," he began, "the fact that I am already drunk does not give you the right to spoil me the pleasure of sipping the drink of gods."

Amell ignored this witty remark completely.

"I mean it, Zev. I'm leaving."

"Don't be ridiculous, darling." The assassin smiled. "Why would you be leaving such a picked company, including, of course, my humble person?" With these words, his smile turned into a smirk. The mage couldn't help but smile as well. But it was a smile full of sorrow and grief. Her eyes, consciously or not, followed a tall, broad-shouldered figure in the distance, laughing at something a short, red-haired woman had just said.

"Oh," the elf grabbed the mug and put it to his mouth. "_that's_ why." He stared at the silhouette for a while. "I've almost forgotten," he mumbled with astonishment, taking a gulp. Second later, he burst out laughing. "Oh, beauty, you think _anyone_ will _ever_ forget about it?", he chuckled.

Erin heaved a sigh. Zevran had a point. Having travelled together for many months, their fellowship had become an audience of a breathtaking, action packed spectacle full of romance and passion up to the most unexpected plot twist. Starring: Erin Amell, a former member of Circle of Magi, a fresh Grey Warden, highly skilled in magic, mostly offensive and destructive spells; and Alistair, an ex-Templar, a bit less fresh Grey Warden, the to-be King of Ferelden, for whom wielding the blade was just as natural as breathing. It had been all perfect: butterflies in the stomach, stolen kisses, even a gift of a red rose.

And then, it had happened: Alistair had found out that – at first – he was King Maric's son and King Cailan's brother. And the long climb up the ladder had began. Erin had had a hard time making Alistair feel comfortable with the thought of being a royal bastard. But she had succeeded. Later, the ladder had began to lose some spokes as the man had learnt that he _might_ become the King of Ferelden. The episode with Goldanna also hadn't been helpful. Yet, Erin was able to use it to her and Alistair's advantage, assuring him that he had been the one to become the new king. Together, they won the gentry's approval during the Landsmeet and here he was – Alistair, love of her life, ruling her country. Of course, she had known she would never be able to be with him as his Queen, but having his affection and commitment had been all she had needed and wanted.

And when everything had seemed to turn out for good – the storm had arrived.

She would never forget the sting in her heart that ripped it into pieces when the man she had loved and trusted most had turned his back on her, coming up with stupid excuses why they could no longer be together. She didn't even remember them now. The conclusion had been one: he no longer had been willing to share his life with her. If he had, he would have found a way. As he hadn't found – well...

The worst part of it had been that she hadn't been furious, not even angry. All she had felt was nothing. Just nothing. She had become an emotional desert. No more party banter, no more chit-chat, no more decisive thinking despite the fact she had been the leader of the group. She had been like a stone – kicked from one place to another, without any say or even consciousness. Alistair had been pulling most of the strings back then, until the night before the final battle with the Archdemon.

The young mage had tried to ignore the tempting offer Morrigan had made. Maker her witness, she had really tried. But after the witch's words, "I am not giving you _a_ solution, Amell. I am giving you _the only_ solution. You don't want him to die. Neither you want to die. 'Tis that simple," she had had to agree. Morrigan had been right – she hadn't wanted to die. And she would never stand losing Alistair this way. She had had to try.

That night, it had been the last time she had ever said she loved him. Not only to him, but also to herself. Maybe that was what had eventually convinced him. There had been little, if any, time to think about such trivia. As then, it had been battle and hordes of Darkspawn and piles of dead corpses and miles of Denerim alleys running with blood of innocents and the Archdemon. And the final, killing blow which she personally had made. Nobody had stopped her and said, "I'll do it." Nobody had pulled the blade from her trembling hands. Nobody had stood between her and the Archdemon. In the end, there had been only her and the giant purple dragon-like demonic creature.

Thanks to Morrigan's dark ritual, she had survived. But what for? For the fame and glory of the Hero of Ferelden, a mage who had saved the country, if not the whole continent? For the look of admiration and gratitude on the people's faces? For the wildest, most boozy party of her life which she couldn't actually remember? None of these. It was for the look on Alistair's face when she had wiped her face from the blood of the Archdemon with the back of her hand, doddering and gasping for air. For his arms pending helplessly in the air, uncertain whether to rest on her shoulders. For the tears in his eyes when he had been about to whisper, "I'm so-" when Erin had uttered a loud, violent call, so powerful it brought her on her knees and caused all the party to join her, throwing their hands up; some even dancing around, hugging each other, crying even.

A lot time had passed since that day. Not much had changed. This was another drunken party Erin had attended in the last months of her stay in Denerim. Most of her former company had left by now: among them, Morrigan – of course; Sten, who had been missing his Qun brothers and decided to seek on the deserted Fereldan paths for other Quinari; Wynne, who returned to the Circle Tower to join Irving in his quest for raising a new generation of mages; and Shale, who set out on a journey around Thedas to finally taste life as an ultimately free golem. That wasn't exactly the most, but the mage knew that Leliana wouldn't remain around for long, willing to brush up some old contacts among Orlesian spies. Zevran had been on the run from Antivan Crows since what seemed like eternity, so his extending stay in Denerim had already been a threat he wouldn't be willing to accept much longer. And Oghren... well, Oghren was Oghren: staying where fun and alcohol were – which for now meant Ferelden capital city, but could as well change any day.

As for Erin... She was willing to leave any minute. She felt she had already wasted too much time here in this city, with the people she knew no longer. Even despite living nearby and meeting up at least every week to talk and look back on the almost bygone days of glory, they had quickly drifted apart, too quickly maybe for a fellowship once ready to give up their lives for the mission they had all been involved in. An occasional drink and shared past were all that remained mutual for them.

Only Erin and Zevran had been truly sticking together. Despite minor dislike they had shared at the beginning of their acquaintanceship, they had grown to like and respect each other, finally developing a sort of friendship. Of course, the Warden could no longer count how many times the elf had tried to make a pass at her. But since the end of her relationship with Alistair, it ground to a halt. On one hand the mage was grateful, on the other it saddened her a bit, but she hadn't dared to complain.

Zevran must had seen woman's martyr looks for he silenced. He put the mug back on the table. "My dear," he spoke softly with his characteristic Antivan accent, enclosing with Erin so that their noses almost touched when she turned her face to him. "I know you decided to stay in Denerim for only one reason. You could not let go, I understand that. And now I understand it is high time you left. The Grey Wardens need you much more than any person in this room... including me," he added after a pause, gazing into the mage's almost black eyes. "But who truly needs you most now, is yourself."

The girl was first to brake the eye contact. A weak smile appeared on her lips. "Flirting again, Zev?", she asked with as playful tone as she could produce.

The assassin chuckled. "Always trying my chances with you, darling. Something tells me it would be worth it." He winked at her with a devil smirk on his face.

She gave him a good nudge in the ribs. "And I thought you have already abandoned this preposterous idea."

"Maybe it is preposterous, yes, but how enticing!" the elf daydreamed for a few seconds, causing Amell to roll her eyes in response. Then he became serious again. He rose.

"Leaving, you do not owe anyone a farewell, Erin. Except for the one who did not let you leave when you truly should have." He glanced briefly over his left arm on the male figure in the distance. "As for me... I am not saying goodbye, as I hope to meet you again soon. Sooner than one might expect." He bended over the table, took her face in his adroit elven fingers and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. "Dareth shiral, my sweet. Take care." He turned on his heel and walked away.

"Wait... you _do_ speak Elven?" She called after him, but never got the answer. Zevran Arainai left without looking back.

* * *

Heavy footsteps echoed as Alistair was marching through the empty corridors of his castle. Although 'marching' was not the best word to describe the stumbling around the fluffy King of Ferelden performed, there was something in his walk that reminded a pace of a soldier, whom Alistair was, through and through. After all, being a Templar could be brought up to being a soldier. And for most of his life, that was all the man had known. Arms, battle and blood, whether in Redcliffe under Arl Eamon's protective wings or then in the Chantry, or even later on, when he had joined the Grey Wardens – especially during the latter. But when the Blight had been stopped, all that remained was ruling the country, all by himself. Until he found a suitable candidate for the Queen, of course. So far, he had met only one such woman. And she would never become his Queen, even if she wished to.

He had screwed this up and he knew it best. In a fit of emotion, he had got rid of the one he had loved. It had been like snapping one's fingers; one day they had been together, planning a joyful future behind the curtains, the next - he was alone. And it had been all his fault.

Since that conversation, when Alistair had decided 'for the better of the state' (only Maker knew better than himself what a lie it had been), they had spoken only twice. Once, when she had convinced him to take part in Morrigan's dark ritual. He didn't regret it, since it let them both live. He hadn't even have time to thank Morrigan, although she had later commented on his 'performance' and even mentioned something about "being jealous of Amell – of course, before you dumped her, you dumbass". Whatever he had done, foolishly or not, he couldn't take it aback now. Whenever he had tried to speak with her, Erin had magically fled. And the other time, right after the battle, when he actually wanted to confess, she had successfully interfered, clearly unwilling to talk about it. So he had given up, sticking to following her with his eyes, but she had never noticed - or didn't want to notice.

"Alistair..." he suddenly heard a soft whisper somewhere from the darkness. It was so surprising he nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Who is this?" he asked harshly, with tense muscles, ready to defeat himself. But when he saw the figure stepping into the feeble light of lanterns, he breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh, it's you, Erin. What are you doing here? I hope you're not trying to sneak into the royal quarters with me, are you?" he sniggered.

The mage shook her head. "Of course not, I just..."

"You know that you should have come to me _before_ I started drinking with Oghren if you want me to be anything more than a snoring log in bed?" He wanted to hide his nervousness behind the facade of poor jokes - they both knew it.

"Alistair, please, this is serious. I _have_ to talk to you."

Out of the blue, the man became irritated. "If this is 'serious', shouldn't it wait until tomorrow morning? I'm tired and I need some sleep, apart from time to sober up a bit."

"Perhaps it should, but it cannot wait." The woman bit her lip. "It has waited too long already..." she mumbled.

Her companion frowned. "What are you talking about, Erin?"

She sighed. "About leaving Denerim, Alistair. It is high time I did it."

King's jaw dropped. He certainly didn't expect such statement at such an hour. "You are planning to leave Denerim?"

"I _am_ leaving Denerim. Tomorrow. At dawn."

Alistair sighed deeply, then rubbed the back of his neck before finally looking at the Warden. "For _that_, I need another drink."

* * *

"Why?" the man asked, putting the second bottle of wine on the table. The first one they had drank in silence. "What for, for Andraste's ass?"

The mage placed her drunken gaze on him, trying to focus. It was not easy. "The time for me has come, Alistair."

In the reply she heard a snort. "Oh, really? Why now and not earlier?"

"I should have left months ago, Alistair. I-I should not have stayed in Denerim at all..." The words threaded their way through her throat with difficulty. Her voice was tranquil, barely audible.

"Then why did you even bother?"

Amell slumped in her armchair, uttering a sigh and hiding her face in her palms. She remained like that for long enough to make her companion anxious, but he didn't move a muscle. When she straightened, her eyes were sparkling from tears. "Do you really want to know?"

"Of course I do." He came closer to her. "Please tell me."

The girl sighed again. "It... it was because of you, Alistair." She gave him her most sorrowful and melancholic look which he had adored so much. This was the only price for which he was able not to die out of grief when he saw her that way: these big, dark eyes, staring at him in search for aid. "I-I was hoping that... maybe if I stayed... you would love me again. And you would want to be with me again. Despite all that had happened." This look was different, though. There was no more calling for help in it. Just pure heartbreak and despair.

"Oh, Erin..." He stretched out to reach her and hug her, but she immediately froze and tensed her muscles.

"Don't you dare and touch me," she hissed, now her gaze sated with fury. "It's all your fault! It was you who suddenly fancied himself that as a king he is not able to have a magical mistress. Well, _your majesty_, as a king, you can do _everything_! Ditching your lover is, alas, included." The Warden stood up and directed her footsteps to the door. But the man was quicker and stronger – he managed to grab mage's shoulder firmly and turn her in his direction. He opened his mouth but didn't succeed to say anything as all of a sudden, Amell flared up with a violent blue glow and he could feel his hands releasing her and his body moving fast towards the opposite wall. He hit it hard, losing his breath. After no more than five seconds he was back on his feet, ready to face another attack, but instead of ferocious assault, he received a final blow in the form of Erin – kneeling on the floor of his quarters, with her forehead leaned against the cold stone; sobbing quietly, snuffling now and then.

Without a word, he approached the woman and knelt down beside her, carefully studying her reaction. She seemed to be ignoring him completely. They both remained like that for couple of long moments – each one of them felt like a decade.

"Erin, I-" Alistair began, but the mage hushed him with her palm.

"Don't, please." It was merely a whisper, yet he felt the force emanating from her voice. "I could never leave if I knew you still have feelings for me. Let me go, my king. We had our time, most precious one. Now, it is time to part ways."

He swallowed hard but still felt a lump in his throat. He could only watch Amell get up and slowly walk away.

"Erin!" he yelled. The woman froze and hesitatingly turned around.

"Will I ever see you again?" he murmured with eyes filled up with tears.

She smiled weakly. "Time will show, King Alistair." And then she vanished into the darkness.

* * *

It had once been a place where the slaves had been brought up to work in the quarry to feed the construction of the temple in Minrathous and the Imperial Highway. But since the Imperium no longer ruled the place, the land had been declared as Free Marches and the fortress was there only to welcome visitors with enormous statues of weeping slaves. The stronghold was sending a clear message: "Beware those who come inside, for it is not guaranteed to ever return". But Erin Amell wasn't interested in returning anywhere, at least for now. One day she would settle down in Vigil's Keep, to reinforce the Grey Wardens and enforce some necessary refinements. One day, but not during the oncoming months. She needed some peaceful time to clear her head in order to be able to think consciously, later on – to deal with the remaining Darkspawn and – most importantly – deal with a mess in her head and her heart.

The mage set her foot on the solid ground and took a good look around. She didn't see any mages. After a while, it was no surprise: all the mages were located in the Circle of Magi, guarded by Templars, without permission to leave. All her life she had considered the Circle to be the best solution. She had never felt the need to leave the warm, welcoming walls of Kinloch Hold, where she could find all the necessary knowledge and all the people whom she trusted. Only after setting off with Duncan had she realised how much she had been missing all that time: the draught of the wind, the smell of the grass, the taste of good ale, the feel of lover's body pressing against hers... She drove the thoughts away.

Through the winding passage, she proceeded to a broad courtyard, full of gruesome statues and scarcely less gruesome mob. Again, she started to scout around, without paying attention to the surrounding people. Suddenly, she bumped into some metal object – the sound was as if she hit a heavy plate armour – and no sooner did she see the astonished face of the stranger than she had fallen into his arms.

"A-_Amell_? What are y-you doing here?"

Kirkwall was certainly an interesting choice.


End file.
